“Still have to move.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Life sucks.”
“It does not! It’s beautiful and wild and unexpected and we have to most the make of it.”
He gulps half his glass. “You mom like my sound. Sound mom like my. Sound like my mom.”
“Maybe I was switched out of your family at birth.”
“How—hic!—old are you?”
“Thirty and six weeks.”
“Nope. Natasha is thirty and two years.”
“Is that your sister?”
“Yep.”
“Is she perfect?”
“She nurses babies.”
I gasp. “Your sister is a wet nurse?”
He squints at me with one eye. “No. She catches them when they come out of vaginas. But only if the doctor isn’t there.”
“Ooooooooh.”
He giggles again. “Yourohface is funny.”
“It really is. That’s why I don’t fuck in rooms with mirrors.”
“I dream about yourohface.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Don’twantto, but I do. I like your boobs.”
I giggle.
He giggles.
I gulp more wine.
He gulps more wine.
The chicken waddles between us and bagocks at both of us in turn.
“Are we friends?” I ask Heath.
He stares at me for so long that I think he’s forgotten the question.
